


Never will

by Aietox



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Forbidden Love, Other, Vague, never meant to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-04 03:37:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1764285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aietox/pseuds/Aietox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the men are called to war, who will suffer?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never will

It is said when you find the person that can make you feel complete, they are often unattainable.

Stiles fidgets in the soft silk that covers his body. A soft melody of blues and lilacs that drape tentatively over his figure. His gaze drifting out of the circular window, overlooking the garden. Resigned silence slips over him like the scent of oranges that waft in. Lines of sorrow well beyond his years cracking the delicate porcelain of his features.

He had been present when the men of the province were gathered and assigned to the front lines. _All able-bodied men will serve for home and country._ Of course, ‘All able-bodied men’ doesn't extended to the officials or their more harbored children. What tragedy would it be for a lord to lose his only child to war so soon after his wife had passed? How tragic would it be for hundreds of other families to send their sons, fathers, uncles, and nephews to fight a tyrant’s war?

And so he stays, dressed in the finery that befits a boy of his station. He had refused to approach even a single one of the men at the announcement. A selfish act that would ensure he wouldn't have to see him go. An act that caused his chest to pull in on itself and burn away his cavity until all he could feel was the hollowness of the lonely.

He refused to search out the head of black hair, face of angular and proud features, the stubble of rugged handsomeness. The man he had fleeting moments with at the town market. The man who had so quickly made his breath catch just shy of his throat. The man who held life below his own station but could easily match the beauty and awe of the gods. The man who’s fingers lingered a fraction of a second longer than necessary when offering his family’s first harvest of grain to the Stilinski heir.

He brushes his thumb over the tender spot of his wrist. The familiar ghost of a touch that serves to bring forth the memory of a love not known. He gazes at the garden with such trepidation, a fear locked in his joints that makes him no better than a coward fleeing his own beheading. He watches, knowing. The volunteered soldiers, line up in a mock formation and march steadily out of the gates. The stride of an animal being lead to the slaughter, after months of fattening. He refuses to search out the man. Lines of salt and water stream down his face, but he refuses to believe that he is losing anything.

The breeze brings in the scent of oranges, and lovers, who were never meant to be, never will.


End file.
